


palace

by seb



Series: decrees of the damned and desired [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dub/noncon, Lingerie, M/M, POV Second Person, Royalty AU, Spoils of War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 05:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17115395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seb/pseuds/seb
Summary: The haughty, gaudy Prince of Prospit gets his share of the spoils of the war against Derse.Enter the fallen Prince, the finest spoil that no one else wanted.Mind the tags. Chapters are independent of each other.





	palace

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features extremely dubious consent that may be interpreted as noncon. Dirk does gain interest in pleasing Jake but please be mindful of the situation. Your mental health is your responsibility.
> 
> I wanted to write Dirk in lingerie and wrote a really vulgar line and this was born! Enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to Paya for reading this over for me, and my amazing friends and acquaintances for cheering me on!

You’re rather bored, sitting in an empty throne room with nothing but the stained glass to entertain you. There are faintly colored shadows dancing on the stone floor as minutes tick by. It’s felt like hours! Where are the spoils of your labor? You don’t sit at a table with military personnel every week for nothing.

You’ve earned this reward.

You twist the singular ring you put on, knowing what you’ll be up to, and stretch your neck. Your crown weighs heavy on your head, but it’s nothing you won’t take in stride. The Queen told you you’d be receiving it— him— before dusk. You received a wash, were dressed in the finest of silk, and donned your fur cloak to withstand the chilly room where you’d await your treasure. You hope this one’s pretty. They’re always so dreadfully dull when they get escorted into your kingdom.

Finally, the grand doors to the throne room open, and you sit up straight, give the rug in front of you a tap with your staff. You see Damara’s slim figure back into sight and a head of blond hair peeking out from behind the door frame as she puts some finishing touches on your prize. She turns to give you a bow with a _My Lord_ that you appreciate greatly, whisks the man out from behind the door and into your sight, then disappears back into the darkness as it shuts.

Oh, my, he truly is a treasure, isn’t he? Golden skin with hair the gods would envy, whispy and bright and falling into his face. He’s dressed head to toe in mint green laces and bows that you’d love to see more of.

“Come closer,” you command, looking down at him as you bring your chin up. He pauses for a moment; caught between running or obeying, perhaps. A moment too long, for your tastes. If he’s going to be your new toy, he’ll have to do what you say. “That wasn’t a request.”

“Wish to tell me what it was, then?” he replies. Oh, lovely, you’ve been gifted a smartass. You point your staff at him, the tip of the crown sharp and threatening.

“Best take care with a mouth like that,” you warn, voice deep and dark. “Earns you a lashing, if you’re lucky.” His hands curl into fists at his side, refusing to cross his arms but also refusing to behave. “It was the command of your Lord, and you will follow it.”

He takes a step forward and stops, chin high. This won’t do, not at all.

“You think you’re smart?” you question, spinning your staff between your fingers. “Just as quickly as you came in, you can be taken out. There are better spoils, much more well-behaved— you won’t be missed.”

He flinches visibly but keeps his chin in the air. A chip in the porcelain will do just fine. The rest will shatter eventually.

“I’m no spoil,” he says, defiant. “I’m the Prince of Derse.”

“Who now belongs to the Prince of Prospit,” you finish for him. “Interesting get-up, don’t you think? My robes are here, my crown— can you say the same for yourself?” You drop your cloak over the arm of your throne for emphasis. This is your kingdom. Your castle. This is your _reward_.

He goes silent. His knuckles go white at his sides. Excellent.

“Now come closer, little thing,” you command once more. “Where I can see you.”

And he does. The picture of sunken pride, he solemnly takes long strides up to your throne, merely feet from the base of it. You could plant your boot on his forehead, if you wished. Another time.

“There he is,” you say, beaming. You stick your staff out again, placing it at his jaw to tilt his head to the side. His brow furrows, hands jerking upward. “Now let’s get a good look at you.”

He stays still as you examine him. Stockings adorn his legs, lacy and light, up to his thighs. Garters connect them to a belt at his waist, partly obscured by the sheer top that separates at his collarbone and drapes delicately down his torso and arms. A pretty pair of panties hug his hips, a bow above his crotch like it’s waiting to be unwrapped by you. How delightful.

“Oh, darling,” you breathe, sitting comfortably back in your seat. You lower your staff to bring one piece of his top aside to expose a nipple. It’s pink and pebbled, a light scrape from your staff blooming into color above it. “You are going to be so much fun to take apart.”

His cheeks color beautifully, the pink flush of interest or shame impossible to hide, even as he turns his head away. You tut disapprovingly and he turns farther to the side. You wait a moment before clearing your throat. He sighs as he turns back to you. He’s learning. Progress.

“Can I…” he mumbles, gesturing at a seat lined up along the rug leading to your throne. You know what he’s asking, but are ever determined to draw it out of him.

“Can you what?” you ask, digging your elbow into the arm of your throne and resting your chin on your fist.

He closes his eyes and swallows. You watch his Adam’s apple bob and his face turn down, towards the floor. Ah, now that’s more like it.

“May I sit down, my Lord?”

“Of course, pet,” you say delightedly, and bring your legs together, patting your lap.

“What,” he deadpans as he opens his eyes, bringing his hands up anxiously in front of him. His feet shift awkwardly as he waits for your response.

“You’ll have the finest seat in the house, dear,” you say, and sit up again, pressing your arms to the chair, staff held lazily between two fingers. “Now hurry up.”

He pauses for another moment. He tends to do that a lot, you note. You snap your fingers and he flinches again, more noticeable this time. He tentatively places his foot on the first step leading up to your throne and you nod your encouragement. Another, the soft padding of his lightly clad feet quiet as he makes his way up. He reaches you, eyes wide and hands outstretched towards your lap.

“Um,” he starts, and drags his hands over your knees. You shake your head and wave your finger around as a gesture for him to turn away from you. He does, shockingly obedient, and stands, unsure, in front of you. You’ve got a great view of his perky ass and have no shame in leaning your staff on your throne and reaching out to grab handfuls of it. He gasps, hands darting back to grab your wrists, and you snap the hem of his panties against his skin.

“Not on the silk, now, dear,” you say, and grab his hips, squeezing the skin beneath your fingers. He is absolutely ridden with goosebumps and tense to the touch.

“Then how the fuck—” he mumbles, interrupted by you pulling him down towards you. He stumbles, reaching back to balance himself on the arms of your throne. You hold his hips firmly above your lap, just close enough to where he can feel your body heat, and spread your legs, forcibly spreading his on the way. He grunts, leaning his weight back onto his hands before huffing out a breath. “This is ridiculous.”

“Hm,” you hum, thoughtful, and snake a hand up his back over the cloth of his top, to his neck. You wrap your fingers around his throat— no pressure, just the presence— and palm the base of his spine with the other. “I think I’ve had enough of that, in all honesty.”

You feel him swallow this time. A shudder runs through him, deep, down to his bones. You perk a brow up in interest. “Did I hit a chord, sweetheart?” you coo, rubbing the side of his neck with your thumb. “Find something you like?”

“Fuck you,” he says faintly. You laugh.

“I didn’t think I’d say this,” you say, tipping his head back. He takes a deep breath in, and you like to think his eyes are closed. “I do quite like you. The feisty ones are always a good lay.”

He whimpers. You bark out a laugh. The Prince of Derse, inches away from being impaled on the Prince of Prospit. It ought to go in history books, you think. Best make it happen, give them a story to tell.

You let go of his hip and start working on your trousers, shimmying to pull them down just enough for your dick to come free, hardening as soon as you’d seen him and now bobbing shallowly in the air. You lick your lips, grabbing his hip again and dragging him down. His arms flex and shake as he goes, only stopping once your dick hits the fabric of his panties.

“Pesky things,” you tut, and pull his panties down to right where ass meets thigh. You drag him down again and your dick skips across his skin this time, dry and rough and not too pleasant. But you’ve had worse. The blond is basically bent over in your lap, breath catching as he focuses on obeying you. You give his ass a firm, hard slap and he keens.

“Did they prepare you?” you ask, rubbing circles into his waist and rocking your hips up to just catch his ass with your tip. He gasps, head hanging as his thighs quiver, the effort of staying up too much to bear.

“What?” he responds through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the knobby ends of the arms.

“I said,” you spit, reaching up to take a fistful of his hair and pulling him down to sit properly on your lap, grinding your dick between his ass cheeks. He groans, hands shooting up to grab at the hand still on his throat. “Did they get you ready for my cock, pretty thing?”

He strains, bucking his hips up and leaning his head back on your collarbone. You growl into his ear, pulling him down harshly by the throat. Your dick slides perfectly between his ass cheeks as you press up into the space and you reward him with a groan. He feels incredible just like this, you don’t know if you can wait to prepare him if he’s not ready.

He mumbles something under his breath, to which you respond with yanking his head to the side by his hair and licking beneath his jaw. He shudders under your touch, tense but resting his weight on you, finally. The next time you buck your hips, the friction and pressure is delicious. “What was that?” you purr; an order.

“They did,” he mutters weakly. Oh, _lovely_. You waste no time in dragging your hands down his torso, further still ‘til you reach his panties and tuck your hands beneath them. His hole is slick and warm; you press with your thumb and the rim barely catches as it slips in effortlessly. He clenches down on the intrusion, embarrassed, most likely.

“Now, pet,” you say, petting his hip with the hand not currently enveloped in his warmth. “Save that for a bit later, hm?”

“Please,” he says, but you don’t know what to.

“As you wish,” you respond, and slip your thumb out until you’re just stretching his rim, lifting him with the other hand at his hip. With an annoying amount of focus, you shift and finagle until your dick is flush against his entrance and push.

The breath is knocked right out of him. You’re thick and proud of it, especially with the way he fits you like a glove as he sinks down. You pet his hips as he takes his time taking you in, inching down and sliding back up to get comfortable, then all over again, lower each time. It’s not long until his ass rests on your lap, his breath coming in fits and bursts as he fights off sobs of pleasure and shame.

“Let it out, darling,” you encourage, nuzzling into the nape of his neck. He exhales shakily, rolling his hips back and forth. It hits something, you suppose, because his next noise is a whine, unsuccessfully muffled through a bitten lip. “No one can hear you but me.”

“ _My Lord_ ,” he moans quietly, hanging his head down in front of him and using your throne as leverage as he rocks up and back down, moving smoothly along your length. It’s nice, hearing him submit to you, watching him create a rhythm for himself.

But this is your prize. You grab him and push into him with all your might, forcing him down onto you. He chokes on another moan, shaking against you. You spread your legs wider and knock his elbows up and out with your own, holding him in place and fucking up into him at an unsteady pace, seeking nothing but your release and his ruin. It takes another plea consisting of your title before you take pity on him. You’ve grown a bit of a liking to him, anyway.

“It’s Jake, if you so please,” you inform him with a kiss to his neck, then take a bite of your newest meal, licking at the tender skin beneath your teeth as you drag his back flush to your front and work in quick, hard thrusts against the bundle of nerves inside him.

“Oh,” he cries, digging his fingers into your trousers. “Oh lord in heaven—”

“There is no lord in heaven,” you murmur, kissing over the quickly forming bruise on his neck. “Not when you’re with me, love.”

You stay like that for a moment, warm in the small space that is your throne. Your staff threatens to fall and you dare to let it happen. Nothing could get your hands off this golden trove in your lap, shaking and whining on your cock as you kiss his neck. He’s a beautiful thing, easy to tame and to please you, and so responsive, too. You hum appreciatively, lift him off your lap to slide out of him and slowly bring him back down.

“Jake,” he says at last, a broken sigh, and you pull him down close and come, moaning into the skin of his shoulder. He clenches down around you, a startled sound dripping from his lips. Placing his hands over yours, he squeezes as you jerk and twitch inside of him.

Minutes pass and you’re acutely aware of the horrid way your skin feels, coated in sweat with your clothes sticking awkwardly to your skin. The wet, enveloping feeling of the blond’s ass on your softening dick is getting less and less pleasant. You lift him off your lap and his legs wobble as he stands, cum dripping from his hole. Disgusted, you pull his panties back up and tuck your dick back in your trousers.

You put your hand on his hip and prod until he turns around, flushed and shaky. You smile up at him, pull at the garter and let it snap back against his skin. “Pray tell,” you say, curious as you rub his thighs. “Just what is your name, dear?”

“Dirk,” he says, voice gravelly and soft, layered delicately to make him blush in embarrassment. He clears his throat and speaks again. “Dirk Strider,” he says, and he sounds much more composed.

You reach around to slap his ass again and he jumps, dick twitching in his panties. Oh! Well isn’t that interesting? “Well, Dirk!” you exclaim, coming up to stand with him, taking your staff in one hand and his arm in the other. “You’re a doll. Care for a bath?”

He blinks, straightening up with a nod. You raise an eyebrow and he mutters a confirmation to your invitation. What a lovely pet you’ve got!

“You know what,” you say as you lead him back down the steps, twiddling with your staff idly. “I think I’ll keep you.” With that, he swallows and nods, following obediently as you whisk him away to your quarters.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback and comments are greatly appreciated.
> 
> ♥ SCS


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